Where Are You?
by JD01
Summary: It all began with a little boy whose world revolved around his loving father. A story about the unconditional love that bonds a son to his father. A story about little boys growing up. Naruto X Minato Namikaze No Incest


Author's Note:

**DISCLAIMER:** Don't own Naruto.

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**WHERE ARE YOU?**

**by JD01 (Emerald Lies)**

**-For my Nonna, whom I love with all my heart-**

It all began with a little boy whose world revolved around his loving father. I happen to be that little boy. Some of my earliest memories include his smiling face offering me comfort. Sometimes, I can recall the most frivolous details with such clarity that it would seem like it all happened just yesterday. I remember him spreading sweet marmalade on slightly burnt toast, while listening intently to my happy babble. I remember his perpetually smiling figure watching me patiently, as I played with my friends on acres of lush green grass. But most of all, I remember his unwavering and hearty smile, and the way his blue eyes would glisten with life.

As night would fall and blanket the city in obscurity, I would curl up against his sturdy frame and relish in his warmth. I would relate him fantastical tales concocted by my overzealous imagination. The stories were idiotic, and they were always essentially the same: the hero saves the day and it all ends happily ever after. I would always deliver the spiel in an excited and hasty manner. He could barely understand half of the words I uttered, but he would always smile encouragingly and engulf me in praises. Once, he even gave me a necklace adorned with a sapphire gem as a token of his admiration. It was a present that his own father had passed down to him, telling him that this necklace had the ability to realize dreams. My dad fervently believed that one day I would become somebody important, that one day I would learn to shine like that tiny jewel. He made me believe in my foolish dreams. He planted the seed of hope in my soul.

When I was five years old, I ran down the flight of stairs, and in my haste I tripped on a step. My body came tumbling down. I can remember with vivid clarity the way my scraped, crimson knees throbbed in pain. The stinging sensation made hot and salty tears hurl down my cheeks. From the corner of my eyes, I saw my father watching. I wailed for his attention, but he refused to budge. I was_ hurting_ and he just stood there, staring. At that very moment, my pygmy body bubbled with hatred. I _loathed_ my dad for being so cruel. As I continued to bawl, his chiseled face broke into a soft smile. I remember seeing those blue specks dance with mirth.

"Do you know what big boys do when they fall?" his gentle voice inquired, mitigating my violent tremors. I shook my head, roughly wiping away the sticky tears from my rosy cheeks. I failed to see the relevance, but I yielded to my growing curiosity.

"They get up."

That is when I stood up and ceased crying.

I loathed elementary school with such vehemence. It was the devil's lair and the children were downright feral. I remember after a particularly brutal day, I finally arrived home and ran up to my room. I collapsed on my bed, weeping my heart out. I remember sobbing pathetically until the lack of oxygen made me light-headed. I clutched my pillow, vainly trying to choke the ugly wails and stop them from escaping my lips. I wanted to sink into the ground and evanesce. I was utterly repulsed with how weak I was. I remember suddenly feeling a gentle consoling hand caress my scalp. I remember feeling plush, silky lips brush my forehead wordlessly reassuring me. It was _him_. My dad cradled me softly until I managed to allay. In his strong arms, I had found my sanctuary.

"Do you know what big boys do when they fall?" he asked, his assuaging voice flowing through the air like fluid.

"They get up."

That is when I ceased crying.

However as much as I loved my father, he was at times such an infuriatingly befuddling presence. I remember when I was seven, we had a habit of slumping down against a tree stump and basking in comfortable sloth, as we would gaze at the lambent moon shying between dark clouds in the horizon. But there is one peculiar exchange we had during that nightly routine that for some reason remained etched in my mind.

"Where are you?" my father had suddenly asked, breaking the enchanting silence. An unreadable expression was marring his young face. His cerulean eyes were riveted on me. The sheer intensity of his look made me squirm anxiously.

I scrunched up my face in confusion. "You are so silly dad! I am right here!" I exclaimed, flailing my arms with puerile innocence.

"No, _where_ are you?" His face split into a paternal smile, leaving me utterly bewildered.

Sometimes it seemed like he came from a different planet. We spoke the same language, yet we were unable to comprehend each other. As I got older, this miscommunication unfortunately fueled several fights.

"Where are you?" he once inquired during our family supper, her sapphire specks scrutinizing me, making me feel like an ant under a magnifying glass.

"What are you blind? I am right here _damn it_!" I shot back scathingly, only to instantly regret my caustic words.

"No, _where_ are you?" he asked with no change in inflection, his beautiful cobalt eyes sparkling fondly.

I averted my eyes, unable to look into those blithe azure eyes and see such overwhelming love. I bit my lower lip, consumed with guilt. Even when I hit the moody teenage years, my father remained soft-spoken.

The years spent by his side passed in a blissful blur. But then slowly I began to notice subtle changes in him. It started with a simple case of frequent forgetfulness. Then, climbing the stairs became the equivalent of climbing Everest. Suddenly, he would get tired more easily, his speech began slurring and a small slip morphed into a broken hip. I suppose time was catching up to his youthful spirit. But he was young and strong… something was terribly wrong. Soon the visits to the doctor's office became far too frequent. I remember staring at the impersonal, whitewashed and dilapidated walls as the doctor used fancy words to explain my father's condition to my family. However, I was no longer a child. I knew that all those eloquent words were condemning my dad to a death sentence. Soon he would become just another forgotten carcass buried six feet under the ground.

Slowly but surely, I witnessed the light in his eyes eclipse. I watched helplessly as the one person I loved the most on this big, cruel planet disappear to nothingness. My vivacious father soon became unable to walk or talk properly. He could not feed himself, nor could he get up to go to the washroom. I used to think of how embarrassing it would be to be caught in such a situation- helping my dad urinate. But I was surprised by how quickly I abandoned such idle pride. It did not matter anymore. The only thing that mattered was helping my loving father. I wanted to be strong for my doting dad, for my first memory, for the person who taught me to dream.

One day, while I was spreading sweet marmalade on slightly burnt toast, I noticed that my father was being unusually silent. He surveyed me gingerly, as though he were judging me.

"W-where am I?" he stuttered uneasily, his lackluster blue eyes dancing with fear.

I was rendered speechless. I never quite knew how to answer that question. I gave him a long, hard stare and I finally saw him for what he truly was. I was greeted with the sight of his scrawny, malnourished figure adorned with emaciated appendages. His ghastly livid face was blemished with sagging creases. I could not stop my eyes from watering, as though I was some feeble child. Fear coursed through my spine like lightning. Dread gripped my heart as I realized for the first time that I was actually losing him. I was utterly terrified because I knew what question would follow. Sure enough, I only had to wait a mere seconds before it came.

"W-Who are you?" his unfocused and dazed eyes evaluated me, trying desperately to identify me.

My larynx was completely arid. I could not breathe anymore. His innocent question scythed my heart. I stormed out of the room before the emotions spilled from me like a tsunami. What happened to being strong? What happened to my courage? I think it abandoned me just like lucidity abandoned him.

He soon became an intricate mesh of flesh and bones, his intact soul trapped inside this chemical coffin. Whenever he would look at me, I knew that he could not see me. He was a million miles away.

I slowly developed an allergy to my father. The sight of him drained the air from the room. That pitiful _thing_ which lay pathetically in my father's bed was an abhorrent reminder of everything we once had shared. I think somewhere deep inside me, I foolishly believed that he would rise from this catatonic-like state and become the man who held my utmost admiration once again.

Finally, one morning, my father refused to wake up. The deed was done and I was left a derelict. My dad was dead, and suddenly any modicum of hope I had harbored evanesced. Nameless and faceless people spewed a sorrowful serenade of condolences, but none of them knew what I was going through. I could not comprehend how the world continued revolving. Could they not _feel_ the agony tormenting me, threatening to rip my heart right out of my ribcage? I did not know how to live in a world where my dad did not exist anymore. He was _everything_ to me! And now, I was left with absolutely _nothing_. For a second time, I despised my dad. The hatred oozed from my every pore, as though somehow it was his fault for dying, for forsaking me to this ravaging fate.

I spent months flowing through life as a corpse. I indulged myself in the fiery pits of self-pity. I was unable to feel anything other than the overwhelming void that resided in the place that once was home to my heart.

Whenever I would close my eyelids and yield into Morpheus' bewitchment, I would see his face glowing with ethereal beauty. Some nights, I could see him with such clarity that he seemed tangible. His sapphire eyes would glow with such intrinsic love that it made my heart melt.

"Where are you?" he would ask tenderly on a gentle octave.

Night after night, I would awake lathered in sweat, my heart beating frantically. These nightly visits provided me with no solace; instead it is with consternation that I began regarding them. I began fearing the moment I would be violently ripped from the realm of sweet dreams and be hurled into the harsh reality- a reality where he did not exist anymore. I was so tired. I just wanted to abandon my soul to sweet oblivion. I was lingering in space like some big waste of oxygen. But a small part of me refused to let go of the grief. Because letting go, would mean moving on. 'Moving on' was it not the same as forgetting? If I _ever_ stop feeling this searing pain in my chest, it would mean that I healed, that his life never meant anything at all if he could so easily be forgotten. It was so exhausting being perpetually at war with your sanity.

One day however, this zombie-like existence was interrupted when I came across a necklace, as I was ruffling through my drawer. It was a necklace with a sapphire jewel. The gem was blue, identical to my father's loving eyes. My breath hitched and before I knew it, I suddenly began to bawl uncontrollably until I was choking on my own revolting tears. For the first time in a long time, I broke down. _"Do you know what big boys do when they fall?"_ I could hear the mantra droning in my head. I had fallen from grace, and I was unable to get up. This is not where I wanted to end up. I had wanted to make my father proud. I had wanted to become a catalyst for good, for change. Perhaps it was not too late to begin living again? Perhaps healing didn't necessarily mean forgetting?

That day, I was struck with an epiphany. However, it was not all rainbows and butterflies from that point on. My dad is dead. The desolating truth is that a part of me died along with him. I will _never_ be the same again. I will _never_ love someone with that same intensity ever again. And no one will _ever_ love me, like my dad had. But a ray of hope birthed in my heart. Maybe from the ashes will rise a brighter future?

Where am I? I am not quite sure, but I think I will figure it out some day.

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**This is a piece I had written for a writing contest. Naturally the original version isn't about Naruto & Namikaze Minato, it is however about my loving grandmother and I. Parts of this story have been added or altered for the sake of entertainment, but essentially this is a tribute for her. When I was younger, she was the one that raised me. My parents had their problems, we needed money, they were always working, and they led busy lives. And I don't hold it against them. They did what they had to do to survive. Who can blame them for that? But my Nonna, she was _always_ there for me. She was my sunshine. She was my _everything_. Make no mistake, she isn't dead… but she isn't part of living anymore.**

**The story is short because the contest had a 2000 word limit (I added a few things before publishing here though).**

**I also made a choice _not_ to put emphasis on medical terms, because I didn't want this story to be about the illness. I wanted to put more importance on emotions to make it relatable. And by doing so, it is predictable. But as an author, those are the choices I made.**

**For my loving grandmother, who taught me what big girls do when they fall**

**-JD**


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